In Her Own Skin
by girlintheyankeeshat
Summary: An alternate ending for 'Love Always'. 'The unwavering edge of darkness in his voice is full of the proposition that they should do something that warrants much more than an apology.'


Summary: An alternate ending to 'Love Always'. 'The unwavering edge of darkness in his voice is full of the proposition that they should do something that warrants much more than an apology.'

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: I always wanted to do something with the end of this episode. Just the whole setting made me long for something more, so here goes!

Something about the atmosphere prompts him to ask her to stay for a bit. The crisp, warm air is oh-so-inviting and the bright red lanterns bob gently in the breeze. The black maze of sequins and lace pooled at her shoulders has been branding bittersweet thoughts in his brain all day. Somehow, he longs for the conflicting desire in his blood to rage on.

"There's plenty of cake, love," he tells her gently, smiling a knowing and victorious smile as the five words break the tight line of tension in her features and she shrugs off the doubt. With the casual dip of her shoulders, she pushes away a mirage, too, shedding the skin of the perfect wife she'd hastily pulled on while on the phone. In silence they move to sit at a table that is neatly laid out and perfectly untouched.

Abandoning a silver fork, as she has no need to be neat and proper with him, she tastes the harmonious trio of sugar, almonds and fruit on her tongue. In contrast, he thumbs at a piece of marzipan with such disdain that she chuckles sweetly in the darkness, the laughter brightening her eyes.

"You want to come along tonight and play with the filet mignon? I'm sure that will go down well with all the brownnosers." How she would love to unleash his kinetic unconventionality in the midst of all that rigidity: he'd be the bowling ball scattering the pins; the cheetah chasing the antelope.

"You know me, darlin'. I'm all about mischief." A hot spark burns behind his eyes, enhancing the sultry cadence of his words.

"So," she whispers, cleaning the tip of her thumb of the syrupy-sweet mixture with her tongue knowing that it really isn't an innocent gesture, "we've had the ceremony and the cake... What's next? First dance?" From the position of her fingertips so close to her face, her wedding ring is a mere thin, gold line. While she considers the fact that her husband prefers lines of a different colour, she wonders if the engraving on the inside is disappearing, too, if all the words are worn away.

"I think you missed the part with the jealous bloke with a gun and the forgotten son." Some part of him thinks that whatever they have between them, this undefined and unshapen entity, will always be tarnished by crises, secrets or misunderstandings.

"That's all finished," she explains firmly, as if she were giftwrapping the end of the case and tying it with a neat little bow, boxing off the worry in his words with beauty.

"Yeah, s'pose you're right."

Neither of them addresses the lack of music as they find themselves mysteriously entwined between a swirling helix of confetti. A faint tang of cherry blossom drifts in the air as softly as the way her fingertips trace the safe space between his shoulder blades. Safe because touching him elsewhere would be very unsafe and she's not feeling quite as reckless as his predatory gaze seems to suggest she should be. He balls his left fist tight and hard across her back, knuckles primed for the fight against the undulating electricity that crackles between their bones and for the imaginary destruction of her husband's lies.

"You do know it's all bullshit, right?" No elaboration is necessary. Even while he's skirting around the bloody useless line as if he were dancing on a tightrope, there's nothing vague about the statement because they both know exactly what he's referring to.

"Yes." Yes, it's all bullshit, she thinks. It's the epitome of bullshit – the lies coupled with the crafted corset of propriety that she pulls on and her husband laces up for the men in suits. All of them in turn hiding behind their own agendas, masked with their own secrets; a masquerade ball brimming with dysfunction.

"Just checkin'." It's a soft, amusing and gentle addition that reinforces the care – the professional in him knows that she knows; the rest of him needs to be sure. A fleeting glance is all that passes between them, a slight sliver of deep communication before they turn their gazes back to the dark night.

"You've got nothin' to be sorry for, either." The unwavering edge of darkness in his voice is full of the proposition that they should do something that warrants much more than an apology. Every emotional syllable swims in her blood as they sway peacefully in the abandoned courtyard in some kind of trance, lost to the world and alive only to each other.

"Thanks," she breathes, ignoring the tiny flares of anger at his mentioning of the matter they had promised would remain unspoken. She keeps the fire and the fury inside, preferring to save its heat for forging her inner steel – a resolve that she'll need for the falsehoods and fairytales of later. With that solitary word, she's thanking him for the gentle inquisition instead of his usual blunt questions; for not quite leaving it alone; for acknowledging that she's not a good girl and yet not a bad wife. When his thumb drifts over a bare patch of skin on her arm in a warm, ghosting jolt of a touch, it takes her to the very core of her gratitude. There's nothing else there: no formality, no convention, no political pantomime. Nothing but his skin on her own.

In that moment she knows that she's thanking him for never demanding that she be anyone else but herself.


End file.
